


A Well-Deserved Break

by ScrambledSparrow



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Gore, Captivity, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Showers, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, Whump, kind of? rather be safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrambledSparrow/pseuds/ScrambledSparrow
Summary: He's been shackled in the basement for a few weeks now. He's free now, even if he can't leave without his woundedcaptorfriendally.After taking care of the most pressing concerns (water, food, the dead body in the middle of the kitchen), Joe thinks it might be nice to take a shower.
Relationships: Gray & Joe, Original Character & Original Character, Original Male Character & Original Male Character, pre-relationship Gray & Joe
Kudos: 2





	A Well-Deserved Break

**Author's Note:**

> I lost my shit halfway through writing this when I realized the entire plot was one man taking a shower. that's it. that's the fic.
> 
> Enjoy (:

Every movement is slow, robotic. Dried blood makes every footstep tacky, but his hands are clean enough that he doesn’t leave smudges where he leans hard on the wall. Everything hurts. Walking doesn’t feel natural anymore, weakened muscles howling under his weight. But he’s walking. He’s free. 

It doesn’t feel real. Everything is out of focus and fuzzy, but random details leap out with startling clarity. The wood grain pattern on the floor. How loud every breath sounds after straining for any whisper of noise, of danger, upstairs. Grayson’s room is empty, barren, but he repeats the directions in his head over and over again. It’s the right room. He’s sure of it. 

He needs clothes. It rubs him the wrong way to take these- from someone he’s trying so hard to hate. They don’t even fit him. But it’s something, he figures. And buried behind all of the practical t-shirts and cargo pants, the long sleeves and inconspicuous designs, there are sweaters. Like the one he’s wearing now, before it was ruined. This is where they came from, then. There’s been no doubt in his mind that they were Gray’s, but it still feels alien and uncomfortably _intimate_ to pluck them from his closet like this. 

He tries not to think about it. Just slinks back down the hallway, not taking a moment to rest, even though he probably should. He manages his way into the bathroom, turning on the light after a long moment of hesitation. It’s way too bright, even after being outside for a few fleeting minutes. Bright enough his eyes water, a headache already blooming. He loves it. 

The poor wretch in the mirror scowls back at him, hardly recognizable. He’s gotten so pale, so thin. His hair is far too long and matted awfully, face streaked with blood and dirt and grime. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. It has to have been days, right? Time doesn’t really mean anything anymore. 

The fresh clothes go on the sink, wadded up into a somewhat coherent pile, up off the floor so they’ll be clean. He struggles for a minute to pull everything else off. The shirt is already done for, crunchy with dried blood and cut and torn in a dozen different places. It tears further as he wrestles it off, hissing under his breath and leaning hard against the sink when everything spins. The skin underneath is a patchwork of gore and blood and horrifically pristine flesh. 

There’s dried blood under his fingernails, in the creases of his palms, and smudged up his forearms. Drying on the soles of his bare feet. It’s the only blood that isn’t his. He tries not to acknowledge it as he wriggles out of his pants, his boxers- everything he’s wearing is just dropped on the floor and forgotten about. Far too ruined to try and save. Maybe he’ll burn them. That might be fun. 

He wobbles as he steps into the shower, squinting at the controls. It feels like he’s never seen a shower before in his life. It’s a guessing game, really, what any of these will do. He scrabbles at the faucet and turns it on to what he hopes is warm. 

There’s a quiet noise from the pipes, and suddenly there’s a spray of warm water, gentle and not too hot. Joe freezes, completely incapable of thinking for a few long moments. After not feeling anything for so long, cold seeping into his skin from the ground and the wall and the beam he was tied to, the water almost hurts. There’s a moment of quiet disbelief before he turns it hotter. 

He crumples with a broken sound, blinking rapidly to clear the water from his eyes, to try and stave off the dizziness threatening to pull him under. It feels good. It feels more than good. This might be the first time he’s felt anything even moderately okay in a long while. He’s not even sure when he started to shake, but it’s painfully apparent as he wraps his arms around himself, curling up in the scalding water. Joe ducks his head, trying to muffle the awful sounds he’s making, animalistic and desperate. The water running off of him is dark, but he can’t see well enough to tell if anything is fresh. 

He just starts scrubbing at himself, not even bothering with soap yet. Scraping off layers of sweat and grime and blood, scratching at his skin until it’s red and tender. Trying to erase the horrors he’s endured. The water feels like it’s going to boil him alive and he almost wishes he could turn it even hotter. Boil the darkness off his skin, chase the cold from his bones. His hands shake when he manages to bury them in his hair with another choked cry, leaning back into the spray even though he can’t see. 

His hair was _crunchy._ Tangled and matted with sweat and so much blood, so much gore. But the water is sluicing it all away, making it into some awful memory. He’s okay now. He’s okay now. He’s okay now. He grabs fistfuls of hair and pulls, feeling like he’s putting tape over broken glass. After a few seconds, he lets go, gasping brokenly and trying to pick up the pieces again. He’s okay. He’s okay. He runs his shaking hands through his hair, tries to figure out how to untangle some of the worst parts. 

Something catches underneath his fingers, something thin and hard and sharp. Joe rakes his nails along his scalp, wincing at the sting as he finds a few more in the worst patches of gore still clumped in his hair. It feels like eggshell, but worse. Wrong. Numbly, he realizes it’s probably a piece of his skull. He feels a little like he might be sick. It disappears down the drain and he doesn’t feel much better. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays curled up like that, hunched over to scrub through his hair. Scratching and trying to ignore the grime that splatters on the floor, washing it down the drain with a robotic numbness. He isn’t really here anymore. Joe takes comfort in the sting of the water beating down on him, the steam filling up his lungs and the heat wrapped around his body. 

Eventually, he can breathe again, unfolding warily to snatch one of the bottles off the bottom shelf. It’s shampoo. That’s fine. He pours some into one hand, curled over it to shield it from the spray. Hesitates for a moment before pouring out more, until it drips between his fingers. It’s cold as he dumps it on his head, scooting out of the direct spray so he can make it into a lather, thick and not quite cooperating. His hands ache, but it feels good enough that he doesn’t stop. He realizes distantly that it smells familiar. Out of any bottle in here, he had to grab Grayson’s shampoo. Of course. Bastard. 

The lather that runs down the drain is an awful muddy maroon, and he doesn’t miss the flecks of blood that are swept away too. Joe grimaces and ends up washing his hair a second time, even though his shoulders ache from keeping his arms up. When the last of it is finally rinsed from his hair, he tries to find the soap and realizes he’ll have to stand up to grab it. He isn’t sure that’s an option right now. 

He stays kneeling for a while longer, leaning back and tipping his face up to the spray. He can hardly breathe but it feels too good to stop for something so simple. He ends up swallowing a few mouthfuls of shower water, at first on accident, and then because he can. It’s near-hysterical, but a laugh bubbles up from his throat. The first few minutes of being upstairs, he drank so much and so quickly from the sink he thought he might throw up. But now he isn’t so desperate. Now he can decide whether or not he wants to drink something. It feels good, dizzying. 

The water is starting to cool, so he staggers to his feet and grabs the soap. It doesn’t have much of a smell, but it immediately makes him think of Grayson. He’s too tired to even be annoyed by that. This part goes a lot faster, considering most of the grime already sloughed off. He zones out, robotic and methodical. His skin is so pale underneath it all, disconcertingly unmarred. He feels like he should have a few scars, at the very least. Just another way for his curse to fuck him over. 

Joe’s energy is starting to flag. The water won’t go any hotter, so reluctantly he turns the shower off, dripping on the tile as he towels off. The ruined clothes are kicked behind the door, and he leans against the sink as he steps into the clean ones. He feels human for once, sighing happily at the soft fabric against his skin. 

The boxers are a little big but he’s really not going to complain. The pants are too long - he ends up folding the cuffs over a few times so he doesn’t trip. The sweater is almost comically large, but it’s soft and warm and dry. It smells nice, too. Trying to tie the hem doesn’t work, so he ends up folding the sleeves and just leaving it. 

He doesn’t even know where to begin with his hair. It’s a mess, longer than he’s ever kept it and already starting to curl as it dries. Aside from sweeping it out of his face, he doesn’t have the energy to bother. Maybe he’ll leave it long. Not like he has to look presentable for anything anymore. Grayson doesn’t count. He figures if you’ve seen somebody’s guts then they don’t have any right to be judgy. His face is still too gaunt, exhausted and pale. But he looks more alive. He _feels_ more alive.

It’s still slow and halting, but he feels lighter as he picks his way back down the hallway, back towards where Gray is waiting for him. For once, he feels a little optimistic. Maybe things are going to be okay.


End file.
